


My Baby's in Chains  (And it Ain't the Kind You Can See)

by AceQueenKing



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Assassination, Character Death, F/M, Family Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-26 03:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12548072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: When the Joker is about to get out, Waller calls Deadshot up to take him out. Floyd decides to take the job, not that he had much choice; chains are chains, but he lives in a damn good cell.





	My Baby's in Chains  (And it Ain't the Kind You Can See)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



When Waller calls him out for an urgent mission, he knows the target before she says it. Not a secret, not really; the whole of Gotham is talking about the news. _The Joker freed through legal technicality._ Floyd's good at picking up at all the things that aren't said though. Unsaid: _The Joker's cronies paid the judge off_. The news is still ricochetting 'round the town, still shocking to the few naive souls that still inhabit Gotham. The rest of them, like Floyd, aren't surprised - Money talks in Gotham, and money talks a lot louder than justice. Few are incorruptible. The Joker can still pull the "young, white baby gangster" card - when he wants to. He can make it look like the stories were all talk, like he was no more than a pillar of society who'd lost his way - Harleen had fallen for his baby gangster act, and Floyd knows better than most that Harleen is no fool.

He pays a dollar on the way to his big meet and great with Waller to grab a newspaper, folds it under his arm. Always looks good to be informed. He scans it until he finds the information he wants - _Joker to be freed around_ 6 PM _, after which Police Commissioner Gordon will launch into a press conference officially stating the precinct's apology and retraction of previous controversial statements..._ Floyd snorts. He'd bet good money ol' Gordon is probably spewing fire at the moment. He'd been one of the chief witnesses that put the Joker away - how this must _sting_. That's what you get, Floyd thinks, for chasing justice in a town as blind as Gotham.

He wanders down her requested dark alley, eyes alert. Just because he is part of the underground didn't mean there aren't other, more desperate fools willing to pick a fight with him. Waller's money has given him the ability to mostly go clean - and if being her errand boy loses him respect, well, it also gets him shared custody of his daughter. And Zoe trumps all.

He finds Waller at the end of the alley, by a brick wall. Being near the garbage clearly doesn't bother her. Not that she belongs here - oh no, you can see from her face that she is a real boss; perfectly manicured nails, helmet of hair, crisp suit. but you could tell she didn't mind dealing with the down and outs either.

Folks like him.

"Waller," he says. He tips his head; respect.

"Lawton," she says; her eyes go to the newspaper under his arm. "I suppose you know why I called you here."

"I might," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Front-page news?"

"He's a menace," she says, walking up past Floyd like he doesn't exist, hands neatly pressed behind his back. "The Joker isn't interested in laying low. He's proved quite unamenable to my plans."

Well, strikes one through three right there, buddy, Floyd thinks. Unsaid: _Waller tried to pull the Joker into an arrangement like his_. Unsaid: _Joker laughed in her face_. Unsaid: _Waller doesn't take disrespect._

"No ma'am," he says, almost holding back a smirk. "Joker ain't the type to go for anything subtle."

"No, he isn't." She turns back to him, military-perfect turn; he wonders if they taught her that at West Point, or she just taught it to herself. "I want him gone, you understand?"

"I understand." He smiles. "You need a good marksman? I'm your man." Always nice to have a fan. He might be legit now, but he's still got pride in his work.

"It has nothing to do with your ability, however good you are with a gun." She reaches out a hand, smooths away a rare stray hair, then pulls a contract out of her bag. She knows him well enough to know he doesn't do anything without a paper trail proving it.

"Then - why?" He asks. He has a damn good reason, but he doesn't know if she knows, and he wants to know just how concerned he should be about Waller's surveillance.

"You've got reasons not to fuck this up." Her raised eyebrow tells him enough. She knows about Harley. So be it, he thinks, and snorts. He signs the contract.

Chains are chains, but he lives in a damn good cell.

\- - -

He's on his way to the prison roof within the hour, and the first thing that becomes evident is that this is no last-minute operation. Unsaid: _they're desperate._

The little room they've let him get ready in is a verifiable treasure trove. He's got a good gun out here; a true sniper's rifle, a Winchester 70. It's an old gun, but one he's well used to - his grandfather's rifle was a 70, too. It's an old-school gun, World War II type shit, but Floyd grew up with it, and he's familiar with the curves of it. They've given him a choice of three barrels, a telescoping sight; they've taken pains to give him whatever tools he feels like using to bring down the Joker. He's even got a spotter up in another tower feeding him Joker's movements - the height of luxury for a solo assassin. The only thing he doesn't have is the suit, though that's not because of Waller; killing this mark is gonna earn him a lot of enemies, and he doesn't have the craving to fight them all, not anymore. The longer It takes them to try to figure out who he is, the better. The all-black suit he's got ain't bad though; top of the line sneak suit from Waller's operations requisition. Fits well, right down to the gloves.

He slips a black tactical hood over his head, - just another soldier, as far as any of the Joker's potential leaks in Gotham Correctional are gonna know. Then he selects a long barrel, loads the cartridge, and opens the door to the roof.

He only has one chance, he knows. The Joker is a well-protected bastard; half of Gotham would have popped him if he wasn't careful enough to pay his defenders well. Worse, he's unpredictable. Waller's only been able to guarantee her boys will be escorting him across the yard to the press conference; he wonders, a smile on his face, if the Commissioner has finished writing his speech yet. Pity he won't get a chance to speak it.

"Doors opening, 12 o'clock," the guardsman in the other tower says. He wonders how this guy feels about it, gettin' shown up by some outside expert with a gun.

Floyd doesn't speak, doesn't want to take the chance that Joker's friends might get his voice pattern. Instead, he concentrates on the doors, on the slight flutter as they open. One of Waller's boys goes first; a big boy, brown shoulders positively bulging at the muscles. He doesn't look upwards for Floyd; good. Waller's guys are trained well. Next, his target - all six feet of him. Floyd keeps the Joker centered in his sights, watching him. Joker's thinner than he remembers; less scary when he isn't surrounded by goons. He's hungry, Floyd can tell; it's evident in the curl of his lips, the deep swirls of chaos that seems to burn behind his eyes. He wants revenge on the Big Ole' Bat, but he won't live to see it.

He sees a bit of the third man behind him, just a scrape of his uniform. White boy, thick-necked; follows close enough to look like he's going to do his job but not so close he's getting in Floyd's way. God damn, he's gotta ask where Waller gets these goons. The big boy in front moves just a half step fast, and then he's got a clear shot. "Go for it," his spotter says. As if Floyd needed the OK.

He doesn't hesitate. One round, right between the eyes. The Joker is dead before the mad clown can realize it, falling without a single laugh. Floyd exits the roof as soon as his spotter confirms his kill shot. Unsaid: _Joker's dead, and Gotham isn't going to be the same_. The less time he's visible, the better.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Waller says, standing inside. She holds up her phone, transfers some big damn money into his bank account. "There's a car waiting in the back."

He nods, then goes; stops only long enough to grab his clothes and stuff them in a bag, though he ain't stupid enough to change anywhere where someone might see him. Better folks think he's nothing but a meathead. He walks out to the backlot and finds a low-key get-away car, some Honda. He sits on the back and gives directions to the national guard building. The guy takes him there without a word; he goes inside and waits for twenty minutes before changing back into his civilization clothes and going around a back alleyway and out into the Gotham crowd.

He walks home, his hands not-quite shaking, as the news presses by him in whispers.

_"Did you see that?"_

_"Guess things are changing in Gotham..."_

\- - -

By the time he makes it home, he's exhausted.

No goons have taken him on since he left the prison, his hands still shaking. He hears the bubbly Disney music out in the hallway and smiles, relieved, as he slides his key in the lock.

The first thing he sees is his little girl, her fingers curled around a kid's microphone. She's singing some Disney song, something he remembers watching a billion times but his baby watches so many princesses, they all blend together. She's crooning to Harleen, who, somehow, has her own Mr. Microphone. Harleen is singing the boy's parts, in what he assumes is her attempt to do a deep voice, and he stops and watches from the door with a smile before coming in. The news is on in the background, he sees; there's Joker's body, blurred out but easy to ID from the green and orange smear on the Gotham Correctional lawn.

Harley looks him in the eyes. "Hey, baby. You done with the mission?" she says. Her eyes are soft, a bit sad. Unsaid: _I know what you did._ Unsaid: _He can't hurt me anymore._

"Yeah," he says. He touches Zoe's shoulder and she looks up at him, puffing out a little breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Baby girl's developing an anxiety when he goes out on a mission; going to have to talk to her momma about maybe getting her enrolled in some therapy. He doesn't want her to become one of those girls in the red district whose _daddy's in the jailhouse_ issues drive them to love bad folks. Shit, hard enough to avoid that as is. His other hand goes out to Harleen, who wraps him in a hug. Unsaid: _thank you_. Her hand goes a bit rogue on the way across his back, slipping down low and pinching his butt. Unsaid: _Shoulda_ taken _me with you, you jerk._

He stays in the hug with his two favorite girls for a solid minute; the muted TV whining it's electrostatic hum in the background.

Unsaid: _He loves them_. Unsaid: _He's happy to be home._

"You wanna make some dinner, baby?" Harleen asks, finally, and he nods.

"Sounds good." Then, to Zoe, he says, "You done your homework yet?"

She rolls her eyes but takes the hint, vanishing into her bedroom. When they're alone, he waits for Harleen to make the first move, to see what's going on.

"So - your work," she says, carefully.

"Yeah," he shrugs. "Waller's orders, you know." Unsaid: _I would have done it anyway._ Unsaid: _He isn't going to hurt you again._

"I figured," she shrugs, turns around, grabs a pot and boils some water. "Feels like I should be sad about it, but..." She shakes her head, puts the pot on the stove.

"It's okay, I get it," he says, and, really, he does. He places his arms around her and she leans back, bright blue eyes looking at him, shining with tears she hasn't shed. "He ain't worth your tears."

"I know," she says, but one slips from her eyes anyway. He grabs some kleenex off the counter, holds it out to her. She takes it, dabs at her eyes. Something uncomfortably close to guilt crawls through his veins. He grabs her in a big bear hug, holds her close. Unsaid: _I love you. I don't want to hurt you._

"Sorry," she says, shaking her head.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," he says, softly, stroking her hair. "Sorry baby, no arguing with Waller."

"I know," she says, lightly slapping him on the shoulder. "Otherwise you should have let me come along," she says. She's smiling, but it's shakey. Unsaid: _He wouldn't do that to her._ Unsaid: _She'd do it for him._

"Would if I could, darlin'," he kisses her forehead and her arms squeeze around them. "We okay?"

She nods and leaves his arms, going back to putting pasta in the now boiling water. "We're okay."

He places a hand on her shoulder, the usually unsaid words bubbling up in his throat. "Hey, Harleen?"

"Yeah?" She turns, wipes off her hands on a little hand-towel like she's a domestic goddess. He leans forward and kisses her, his lips softly on hers. She leans into it, her arm going around his neck like the most natural chain in the world.

"Love you," he says, smiling.

"I know," she says, and kisses him again. "I know. Now go raid the fridge, make us something good. I'm gonna go see if baby girl needs help with her homework."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and vows to make his girls the best meal he can.


End file.
